


Belated

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo finally gives back the keepsake he’s been hoarding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belated

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “the moment Ori falls through Bilbo's front door, he's wearing a hat, but as he falls, it falls off his head and lands between Bofur and Nori, then we never see it again ever. So what if Bilbo found it the next morning and hung onto it? And he kept meaning to give it back to Ori but either he forgot or it wasn't a good time. But then it starts to snow heavily and unexpectedly, and Bilbo gives it back to make sure Ori was warm in a moment of paternal instincts.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=22841812#t22841812).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

At first, Bilbo’s glad for a chance to _rest_ ; this journey is exhausting, and the snow’s a nightmare. But as he sits huddled up beneath the rocky overhang of the cliff, he can’t help but wonder if he might’ve had a better chance to warm up whilst walking. Then he reminds himself how absurd that is, and that this is all just one big no-win scenario.

None of the dwarves feel much better. They’re grumpy, as they often are, Thorin clamouring to move on and Balin insisting they wait out the blizzard, with Gandalf off in his own little corner, thoroughly sick of their bickering. Bilbo’s on the very end, his right side bombarded with the cold air and his left sight nestled up against Ori. At first, when Nori and Bofur loudly suggested they all scrunch together to preserve their body heat, Bilbo thought it most inappropriate. He sat on the end deliberately. But then he wound up beside Ori, who is, at least, small and cute and not so musky and unwashed as the others. Unlike the heavy armour and leather common to most of the dwarves, Ori’s clothes are mainly knitwear—the sort of thing Bilbo might’ve liked to bundle up in back in the Shire. He should’ve learned to knit. He meant to, but somehow never got around to it. And now he’s always on the road, with no time to do anything but sulk.

Ori’s shivering. They all are, except Dwalin, who’s too stubborn to tremble, and Bombur, who has the benefit of fat. Fíli and Kíli are so plastered to each other that they might as well be the same person, and they’re talking loud enough to keep up their energy, while Bofur tries to bolster the rest into a song. Ori might be shivering the hardest, being not all that much bigger than Bilbo and not having his brothers practically on top of him like the princes. It gives Bilbo a convenient excuse to turn closer against him. No one else is paying them much mind, so Bilbo can pretend it’s not as improper as it is to nuzzle into Ori’s shoulder and curl up against his side. Bilbo has his bundled pack in his lap, and inside is the nicest knitwear he’s ever ‘owned.’

Except that it isn’t really his, which is precisely why he’s yet to use it. When the dwarves first arrived on Bilbo’s door—now _there_ was some improper behaviour—Ori had the misfortune to come in a pack. When Bilbo’s bright green door swung open, Ori toppled inside atop his brothers and friends, and while Bofur’s hat survived the fall, Ori’s didn’t. He’d been wearing a greyish, purple-blue beanie that fell right off his head. In all the confusion of so many dwarves in such a small space, no one bothered to fetch it.

Then the morning came, all the others quite cleared out, that one little remnant still lying on Bilbo’s nice wooden floor. It was just a bit too nice to throw away, though at the time he didn’t think he’d ever see Ori again, and then that business with the contract happened, and Bilbo barely had time to shove it in his pack before bolting out the door. 

And then he’d _meant_ to give it to Ori, many times, but he kept forgetting and there was never really a good time. When he held it in his hands, he found he enjoyed the impressive craftsmanship, how very warm it was, and even the way it smelled. Bilbo never had, and still never has, owned a wooly hat before. Ori’s is just _perfect_ —and it’s Ori’s, which shouldn’t make it more valuable but somehow does—and though Bilbo had known he’d have to return it _some time_ , it became harder and harder to give it up.

And now they’re up in the mountains, covered in snow, and all of Bilbo’s clothes are damp and cold, and he’d very much like to pop the lovely warm thing right onto his head. But he’d also like to burry it away and hold onto it forever: his lucky charm for all the nonsense they’ve survived, his remnant of these wild dwarves, for when he has to leave them at the end of their long journey. If he’s quite honest with himself, he doesn’t want to give it back.

But Ori’s trembling so hard, and his breath is coming out in little puffs, and when he turns his head to nuzzle into the top of Bilbo’s hair, it feels vaguely like a caress that makes Bilbo squirm too pleasantly. He even likes the tuft of hair on Ori’s chin—not too long or coarse, like all the others, his mustache only tiny and cute freckles dotting his cheeks. They don’t say anything but don’t have to. There’s an unspoken agreement that in the interest of survival, they can snuggle as close as they like. Bilbo’s hobbit pride is slowly slipping out the window, while Bofur chants boisterous tales of lewd encounters and crude behaviour. Across from them, Balin’s fondly wrapping his beard over the top of Dwalin’s bare head to trap in heat, while Dwalin scowls but doesn’t move away. 

Bilbo should be doing that. He doesn’t have a beard, but he does have warm clothes. Just as Glóin and Óin join Bofur in the ruckus, Bilbo starts fishing in his bundle. 

He pulls out his wooly prize, and he turns to bring it up to Ori’s head. Stretching it open to fit over Ori’s ruddy-brown hair, Bilbo tugs it down across Ori’s forehead, while Ori blinks at him in surprise. With tentative, thick fingers, Ori pats his head and asks, “What’s this?”

“Your hat,” Bilbo mumbles, the blood that hasn’t frozen yet rushing to his cheeks. “You left it in Bag End, and I... I suppose I kept forgetting to return it.”

Ori says, “Oh,” and looks up at it. He tugs the brim down, eyeing it as though he’s never seen it before, then smiles faintly and turns back to Bilbo to explain, “I forget about this. Dori’d bought it for me from a road trader just before we reached the Shire, but that was the first and only night I’d worn it. But you can keep it, if you like. Dwarves are thicker than hobbits, and I can handle the cold.” 

Bilbo remembers Ori foolishly saying he could take on a dragon, back when they were in a warm cozy hobbithole with no dangers in their face. It makes him smile back, but he insists, “You wear it.” Which isn’t the same as ‘you keep it.’ He wouldn’t mind having it back after, though it does look rather good on Ori, as woolen things tend to do. 

Bilbo can’t even stop himself from lifting up to adjust it, smoothing it straight across Ori’s head and brushing down his straight-cut bangs and the two braids that got scrunched up at the ends from it. By the time Bilbo finishes, Ori’s blushing too. Bilbo looks away to save face and rests his head back on Ori’s shoulder. 

Ori still cuddles into him. They fight the cold together, until Bilbo wakes up some time later, having fallen asleep on Ori’s shoulder with the hat now stuffed onto his head.


End file.
